


Sherlock Holmes (not a spinster)

by naturegirlrocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bridget Jones - Freeform, John is a doctor with ugly sweaters, M/M, Moriarty is Jim from IT, based on a book, based on a movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 01:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturegirlrocks/pseuds/naturegirlrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock based on the book Bridget Jones Diary by Helen Feilding<br/>In which Sherlock is quite emotional, John is a bit sexually confused, Mycroft is friendly, Greg is cool, Molly is sweet, and Jim is a fuckwit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes (not a spinster)

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published on FF.net

It was midsummer's Day and Sherlock had, unwillingly, left his cosy apartment to spend the day with his parents on the outskirts of the city. It was their annual luncheon, dedicated to stuff all their friends and family with as much quiche, gherkins, and gravy as possible. His older brother Mycroft seemed to be in heaven as he took a third byway past the buffet table.

Sherlock looked away from his brother, and took another glass of white wine from the table. He was bored, and that was never a good thing. He would much rather have stayed at home, investigating the mould that was beginning to form on the bowl of oranges in the kitchen.

To add break to injury, he had let his mother dress him. He had tried to explain to her that as a thirty four year old genius, he was able to choose his own clothing. He was now wearing brown corduroy trousers, a beige shirt, a blue striped pullover, and a brown bow-tie. She had also managed to put some gel in his otherwise curly dark hair. He wished he was dead.

"So Sherry," said uncle Godfrey l, sliding up to Sherlock's side. "Still single then?

"Yes," Sherlock glanced irritatingly at his uncle, who wasn't his real uncle, but married to his mother's younger sister. "And you are still betting on horses behind auntie Marjorie's back,"

"Hehehe," laughed uncle Godfrey good-naturally, and patting Sherlock on the back. "You should really settle down with someone you know. You people do that too, right?"

"Yes, we do," Sherlock emptied his glass.

Since he had come out as gay, nearly fifteen years ago, there had been a constant talk about 'you people' at get-togethers like these. Sherlock had long since stopped caring. His thoughts wandered back to the mould.

"Tick-tock," said uncle Godfrey and smacked Sherlock on the bum.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as uncle Godfrey laughed again and left to harass, the equally single, but bi-sexual Mycroft instead. Though, sadly, Mycroft was a little more difficult to harass since he was secretly more or less running the British guvernment.

"Sherlock," his mother came hurrying toward him, closely followed by aunty Marjorie and their friend Hester Watson. "Sherlock, sweetheart, there's someone you simply must meet,"

"You are not setting me up again, mother," said Sherlock grabbing another glass of wine from the table.

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling!" his mother smiled. "But you simply must meet Hester's son. He's a doctor!"

"And a captain," said Hester.

"A doctor-captain!" said auntie Marjorie. "He has just broken up with his boyfriend!"

"Mother..."

But Sherlock had no time to complain before he was manhandled by the three ladies to stand in front of the doctor-captain himself.

"Sherlock," said his mother. "This is John. John, this is my youngest, Sherlock."

John was a head shorter than Sherlock. He was also slightly older, pushing forty, and a bit pudgy in a way that made him look solid and strong. He had a nice, round, face as well. There was actually something there that raised Sherlock's interest.

Then he looked down at the jumper the doctor-captain was wearing. Sherlock had nothing particular against jumpers, not even in the middle of summer, but he drew the line at jumpers depicting bunnies with pink perturbing wool tails attached to them.

"You met before you know," said Hester. "Remember, John? When Sherlock was three and you almost eight, you sat naked in the kiddy pool together."

"Must have slipped my mind," said John with a tired look at his mother before shaking Sherlock's hand. "Nice to meet you, again."

"Yes," Sherlock looked him over, and even though he judged the man physically attractive and interesting from a human-study-point-of-veiw, he was slowly retuning to his bored state.

"John just got back from Afghanistan," said Hester, patting John on the arm. "He got a medal for bravery."

"Sherlock works in the laboratory at Saint Bartholomew's hospital," said his mother proudly. "He is very, very smart."

"We'll just leave you to it then," said auntie Marjorie, pulling away her sister and Hester, who both seemed very, very exited over the prospect of Sherlock and John getting together.

John looked on as they walked away, and shifted. He was leaning on a cane in his right hand. The left shoulder also looked stiff from a probable injury.

Sherlock noticed the clear signs before a put-down in the man, and his mind wandered again. This time to his friend D.I Greg Lestrade who occasionally picked Sherlock's brain on his more difficult cases.

"I'm not gay," John then informed Sherlock. "Not that I mind people who are, it's all fine. But I'm not. He was not my boyfriend, just my friend, who is a boy, man! He was a man, and he was my friend."

"Hm," said Sherlock and took a swig of his glass. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"What?"

"Your phone. I need to send a text."

"Oh," John took out a black smartphone from his inner pocket. "Have you forgotten yours?"

"It's over there," Sherlock gave a dismissive waive toward the hallway.

He sent of a text to Greg:

\- The blood trace was planted - SH

Then he handed the phone back to John.

"Thank you," he said. "I think you and your mother should talk about getting your brother some help,"

"What?"

"Divorces can be hard when you have a alcohol problem. Speaking of which, I need a new glass."

Sherlock escaped to the kitchen, where he managed to stay for at least ten minutes, before Mycroft found him and dragged him back to the party to go get some food. He was a little tipsy by then, but his brother just gave him a condescending smile. They always forgave him for having a little too much to drink. Certainly it was much better than his old habit of shooting cocaine up his arm.

He was holding a small glass plate, letting Mycroft fill it with food that Sherlock was never going to mange to eat, when he overheard the voice of John Watson behind him.

"Mother, I'm not gay. He and I were just very good friends. And if I was gay I wouldn't go for a rude, clearly insensitive eavesdropper, geek who drinks like a sponge and uses other people's phones to send freakish texts to his friends... Oh!"

John had the decency to blush as he faced Sherlock.

"Nor should you," said Sherlock. "Just as I wouldn't go for closeted broken soldiers with psychosomatic limps and questionable taste in knitwear. Now if you excuse me I have a mould culture to get home back to."

He headed for the hallway. There was a distinct sound of Hester slapping her son in the back of the head. Sherlock didn't bother to find out, but continued taking his jacket of the hanger and heading out through the front door. He was actually kind of grateful as he had been given a good excuse to leave the party.

Ignoring the calls and messages he got from Mycroft, Sherlock texted his mother goodbye, and then called for a taxi to take him back to the city. Maybe he felt a little depressed over the put-down he had gotten from the doctor-captain, but he was used to disappointment when it came to his personal life. He thought about it a little more on the ride home, he really ought to do something to get on track.

As he entered his upstairs flat on 221b Baker Street, he was greeted by Greg and two uniformed police officers, ransacking his things. His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was standing by the door, nervously looking on. She gave him a kind, but pitting, smile.

"So Mycroft called you," said Sherlock taking off his jacket.

"We only trying to help you," said Greg.

"I have been turned by men down before. Many times."

"Yes, well..." the detective shrugged and handed Sherlock a glass of water. "We just care about you that is all."

"I don't know why you do," Sherlock took the glass and emptied half of it in one go.

"One of life's mysteries, mate. All right," Greg turned to his underlings. "You can go now. Good work."

"There's eyes in the microwave," said one of them.

"Put them back!" huffed Sherlock. "It's an experiment!"

The two police officers exchanged a look, but then left as per order. Mrs. Hudson followed them down to the front door, leaving Sherlock alone with Greg.

"You were right about the blood," he said. "The guy confessed to everything when we confronted him."

"Of course I was right," Sherlock finished his water.

"Of course," Greg shook his head. "You still on for the pub tomorrow?"

"Since you are making me."

Greg just smiled and patted Sherlock on the arm before leaving. Sherlock sighed and closed the door behind the his friend.

He should be glad to have friends, since he was not a easy person to get a long with. For someone who had been alone, only relying on a seven year older brother though childhood, adolescence and the first ten years of adulthood, it was a real achievement to now be able to count his friends to a total of two. Three, if you counted Mrs. Hudson, but she was more of a extra mother than a friend.

Sherlock checked to mould on the oranges, while taking in an other glass of water. He took some pictures and made some notes of the mould for his web-page. Then he continued undressing, putting all the horrible clothes he is mother had given him in a plastic bag and putting it by the door. There was going to be one happy homeless man tomorrow wearing new clothes.

Putting on his rubber apron and long gloves over his blue pants, Sherlock started on a new experiment involving testing sulphuric acid on different kinds of spoons he had bought just for the cause. It kept him occupied until midnight when he took a break to play some violin.

While he played he thought about men, and how he was going to go about getting one. Who where the men closest to him? Greg? No. Greg was indeed bi-sexual but there was nothing more than friendship there. Greg had also been married to a woman for eighteen years before his recent divorce.

Sherlock's other friend where female. Molly didn't either have any friends outside their small circle, and since she was a pathologist, most of the men she met had passed their expire-date.

The only gay man close to him that Sherlock could think of was his so called 'unobtainable crush'. Jim from IT. His real name was James Moriarty, he was so gorgeous that the reputation of him being reckless, megalomaniac and slightly perverted meant nothing. These were definitely not things to look for in a boyfriend, but they were so easily overlooked when Jim turned his smile on you. Sherlock couldn't concentrate on playing any more.

He decided to go to bed, though he stayed awake with thought running around his head until dawn. He then he nodded off for about two hours before it was time to shower, and take a cab to work. Sherlock had still not come up with a plan to get Jim from IT to notice him.

Thankful that he could wear one of his his good silk shirts and his fitted trousers again he pulled on his blue lab-coat and headed for the chemical laboratory. Molly was already there, examining a piece of a human liver under a microscope. She smiled as he walked passed her to the refrigerator were he kept his cultures. Molly had confessed to be in love with him once while drunk. It had pained him a little that he could not return her feelings.

"Good morning," she said. "You okay?"

"Did Mycroft do anything else last night other than calling you?" Sherlock sighed.

"I... I don't know..." blushed Molly. "By the way, the computer is acting up again. I've called IT."

"Oh?" Sherlock tried to feel if his hair was in order.

His phone rang. Mycroft, again. Typical. His brother must really have thought that John Watson had made a number on Sherlock. Honestly, Sherlock had heard far worse and better insults from far worse and better people than the doctor-captain.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft as soon as Sherlock had put the bud of his hands-free in his ear. "Are you feeling better?"

"Piss off," huffed Sherlock, not stopping his work with his cultures and noting that Molly gave a little giggle. "Do you have anything useful to do, like spanking someone with your umbrella, or something?"

At that moment Sherlock noticed Jim from IT standing by the computer looking at him. Sherlock swallowed and felt his heartbeat increase heavenly.

"Can't talk now," he hissed to the microphone and pulled the bud out of his ear.

"Your boyfriend?" asked Jim with a laugh.

"Just my brother. I don't have a boyfriend. I'm single."

"Good to know," Jim smiled.

Sherlock felt himself beginning to blush. Something distracting. Quick. Molly.

"Molly, who's liver is that?" Sherlock moved across the room. "Is there a new donated body? Is it in the autopsy room? I need new fingers for an experiment. Don't get up, I'll find it."

He hurried out of the room, his mind railing horribly about what a huge clot he was. And now his carefully prepared cultures were going to be ruined. There was no way he could go back into the lab with Jim still there. His phone beeped.

-See you this evening, MH.-

Yes, Sherlock really needed a drink, a large one.

He got the drink about seven hours later. By then he had had time to hide in the ladies bathroom for two consecutive hours until Molly found him, nicked the right thumb of a corpse that hadn't been donated and then convinced the highly religious widow that she should donate it, then he set up ten new cultures, tried in vain to learn the entire hospital's computer system so that they never ever would call for IT support again, and managed to sneak a total of five cigarettes from the ambulance drivers. He also walked passed the IT-department four times.

"And I thought you were upset from what that doctor said," said Mycroft taking sip from his brandy. "Do you want me to put a tap on this Moriarty as well?"

"'As well'?" asked Greg. "Who else do you have a tap on?"

"Oh, you know better than to ask me that, Gregory."

"I don't think Sherlock want you to tap him," giggled Molly. "I think he wants to tap him himself."

"How many of those Dirty Marys have you had?" asked Sherlock.

"One, and a half."

"Sherlock," Greg leaned forward. "I think you should take it easy with this guy. He sounds quite experienced compared to you."

"No, he is nice," frowned Sherlock. "In a kind of dangerous sort of way."

"Heaven save me from the dangerous men," Mycroft shook his head. "They always taste the sweetest just before you reach their bitter heart."

"That is so pretty," sobbed Molly on Greg's shoulder.

"How many has she had now?"

"One and three quarters."

Sherlock thought about Jim from IT for the rest of the evening. Greg was right, Jim had a lot more experience. Fine. And Sherlock was inexperienced. But he was also a genius. An extraordinary genius at that. He would not be taken in by a man like Jim. He could keep his feelings in check. He was strong, he had kept himself basically drug-free for over three years, at least the hard drugs.

He managed to sleep for three hours that night. He woke up at half passed one and began making research on his new thumb. As the limb dissolved in a mock stomach-sack of hydrochloric acid to the ticking of the egg-timer, and he was on the second chord of Mozart's thirty-fifth Violin Sonata, Sherlock decided to chance it it all. Today he was going to flirt.

Arriving early to the hospital Sherlock hesitated in front of the IT-office's doors. He had brought his old laptop from home so that he could ask Jim for help with it. Just an hour ago he had, after saving the entire hard drive on his new laptop, purposely downloaded a evil virus to the old one.

He was wearing his purple silk shirt, the one that had become a bit too small for him after rebuilding some of the muscles he had lost during his addiction. The buttons where a bit strained over his chest when he moved. He knew he looked good, Molly's blushing cheeks had told him so.

The plan was simple. Sherlock was going to ask Jim for help with the computer. Then he was going to show Jim that he was smart, good-looking, and funny. Well, at least smart, anyway. Then he was going to ask him to be his date to the chief surgeon's big birthday party this evening. There was just two major problems with the plan.

Jim was also very smart, and Sherlock was going to need to ask for help.

It was fake help, sure, but he still needed to ask for it. The last time he had asked for any kind of help was little over three years ago when he, with a blooded and broken needle stuck in his arm, had cried in his brother's arms and promised Mycroft that he never, never, would run away from the rehab clinic again, just give me one more chance, please.

He was taking a step forward and halting again, running variations of the upcoming dialogue over in his head. At that moment Jim suddenly came out from the office. He was wearing one of his regular novelty t-shirts and his designer jeans, he held a iPad in a green casing in his hands. Jim's lips curves upwards when he caught sight of Sherlock, and he got a interested look in his eyes.

"That is a very nice shirt you are almost not wearing," he ginned, and then looked down at the laptop Sherlock was holding. "Is that for me or are you just happy to see me?"

Sherlock was a little irritated to look down and see that he was holding the laptop as if he was hiding his crotch.

"It's broken," said Sherlock. "I mean the computer. The computer is broken."

"Everything else in working order then?" said Jim, taking a step forward, his eyes at level with Sherlock's nose.

"Perfectly," said Sherlock, now catching on in the obvious trade of sexual innuendoes that had started without his control. "Ready for some sturdy work."

"Really?" Jim looked intrigued and reached out to take the laptop from Sherlock. "Why don't I take a look at that for you? Any dirty pictures you don't want me to see?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip. The only pictures of genitals and naked flesh on the laptops hard-drive was of pictures he had taken of corpses, both from the morgue and from some crime scenes Greg had allowed him to observe, all were catalogued from a clearly and purely scientific point of view.

"Sadly, no," said Sherlock.

"Pity," winked Jim. "Say Sherlock? Are you going to Tanner's party tonight?"

"I have been invited, yes."

"Do you want to tag along with me? Perhaps we can go for a drink afterwards."

"That sounds good," Sherlock tried not to jump for joy. "I would love to."

"See you there at six?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"You are welcome," Jim looked at him appreciatively through his eyelashes and continued to walk down the corridor, with Sherlock's laptop nicely tucked under his arm.

Sherlock was almost running back to the laboratory so he could tell Molly the good news. He was definitely a master flirter, and he hadn't even really been forced to ask for help. Life felt quite good at the moment. Sherlock had formed a new plan. His goal now was to have sex. He couldn't remember the last time he had had sex...

Well, of course he could remember having sex, he always remembered his scientific experiments. But if he ever had sex when he was too drugged to resister it, he didn't know. The last three years there had been nothing.

The thought frightened Sherlock a bit, but Mycroft had at the time made him go through all the of tests, and they only found a urinal infection. Lucky, it was not an adequate word for Sherlock.

Because Sherlock really had been incredibly lucky for an ex-adict, he thought for himself as he stood naked, and clean, in the bathroom looking at himself in the steamed up mirror above the sink.

He was alive, mainly healthy, his brain sometimes functioned far too well for its own good, he had a job with benefits, a nice place to live, and friends and family that cared for him. It was only the handsome boyfriend that was missing.

Tonight he was going to fix that. He was going to get that boyfriend, and he was going have real sex with someone he fancied. Not as an experiment, or something to forget about later.

He arrived to the party at exactly six o'clock. There were already a small crowd attending, having drinks and chatting. Sherlock spotted Jim talking to Doctor Tanner at the other side of the room.

"Sherlock Homes?" a slightly familiar voice at his side asked.

"Doctor Watson," said Sherlock, slightly surprised over that he still remembered the man's name, because he usually made himself forget all things he found boring. "What are you going here?"

"Doctor Tanner is Sarah's former mentor."

"Sarah?"

"Oh," John turned to introduce the woman by his side. "This is Sarah, my girlfriend, and boss, actually. She has her own GP-practice. Sarah, this is Sherlock Holmes, a son of a friend of my mother's. Apparently we used to bathe naked together as children."

"Highlight of my life," drawled Sherlock and looked over at Jim, who had finished talking to Doctor Tanner and was now looking at Sherlock. "Excuse me."

He moved away from the doctor and his, obviously plain, girlfriend. He felt pleasantly surprised as Jim sneaked a unexpected arm around his waist. Sherlock recognised the movement as a show of ownership. He wondered what he had done do deserve such a sudden display of power from Jim's side. What ever it was, he liked it. After a few seconds of anguishing hesitation he placed a hand on Jim's opposite shoulder.

"You know John Watson?" asked Jim casually.

"Our mothers are friends," said Sherlock. "I used to be naked in his kiddy pool.

"I bet you did," Jim's hands gave Sherlock's hip a squeeze. "You are a bit of a dirty boy aren't you?"

Sherlock didn't know if he should answer that or not, he chose not to, and it seemed to be the right thing to do.

"How do you know him?" he asked.

"He stole my boyfriend," said Jim in a bitter tone. "They were in the army together, and Watson seduced him away from me."

"That's not very nice," said Sherlock throwing a glare at the doctor-captain.

"I was a bit heartbroken, yes," Jim looked even more bitter.

"And he makes such a terrible show of not being gay," Sherlock looked over at Watson who was tightly holding his girlfriend's hand, but was casting glances in Sherlock's and Jim's direction.

"But enough about him," Jim slid down his hand so it rested closer to Sherlock's arse. "Why don't we blow this joint and find some cosy bar to get a little more, intimate in?"

"I..." Sherlock thoughts were coming a bit meddled as he could feel Jim's warm fingers pressing into his skin through the fabric of the trousers.

"I happen to have a very fine selection of drinks at my home." Jim looked up at Sherlock with a smile that did nothing to hide his real intentions.

"Are you asking me to come home with you?" asked Sherlock, making sure that he didn't miss out on anything important.

"Yes," Jim had turned toward Sherlock. "I've been watching you for a while you know. Always thought you were a bit of a quirk, but a damn sexy one. Would you? Like to come home with me?"

"I would like that very much," breathed Sherlock.

He was a little bit disappointed that another one of his carefully laid out plans had not had time to ensue, but the result seemed to be the same. Jim took Sherlock's hand in his, and gently led him toward the exit.

He could swear he saw John Watson narrowing his eyes in a disapproving look, but Sherlock could care less.

To have sex with Jim is like a piece of heaven. Sherlock feels distraught, satisfied and incredibly calm. His otherwise busy mind became stuck on one single thing, and that was how Jim looked when he was moving his firm hardness between Sherlock's spread out legs, naked, and so blissful. This was how it was supposed to be, he thought as he buckled back into the mattress.

About an hour later Jim was kissing his way down Sherlock's lower back when Sherlock's phone called from the piled up jacket on the floor.

"Ignore it," said Jim, giving Sherlock's bum another kiss.

Sherlock tried ignoring the tone for two whole seconds before answering, he was actually pretty proud of this fact. He looked at the caller display. It was Greg.

"Sherlock, why aren't you at home? Never mind that now. There is a female floater washed ashore on the east side of Lambeth bridge. Will you come?"

"Ten minutes," said Sherlock, gasped, Jim had just bitten him on his left bum cheek. "Maybe fifteen."

When he showed up at the crime scene thirty-five minutes later he felt gloriously happy. Greg didn't even berate him for being late, though his sergeant, Sally Donovan, and the annoying bloke from crime-tech, Anderson, looked slightly annoyed. Sherlock just smiled at them and headed for the corpse by the bank.

"I take it your date went well then?" asked Greg, holding on to a steaming styrofoam coffee cup.

"You can say that," Sherlock tried not to winch from pain as he bent down to look closer at the bloated body.

"I'm really happy for you," smiled Greg.

The next days were full of sex, kissing and smutty texting. The smutty texting was mostly on Jim's part, since Sherlock didn't really grasp the concept, and had been asked not to bother after the second response of 'that is physically impossible'. He enjoyed reading Jim's messages though.

The only interruption was three days later when another floater was found in the Thames. The evidence was hinting of possible serial killer. Sherlock's time at the lab and with Greg increased dramatically. All the precious free time he allowed himself to not sleep, was spent with Jim. It was strange to be so devoted to two so different aspects of his life at he same time.

Soon his aunt Marjorie's fiftieth birthday was coming up, and Sherlock invited Jim to the party. The case with the floaters was at a standstill. It was one of those moments when you couldn't choose between wanting to find a new dead body, or wishing that the killer had given up and was going to get away.

Greg put Sherlock on-call, and there was nothing more to do than wait. Going to his aunt's party was a way to heed of the nervous twitch that curiously began in Sherlock's legs every time a mystery was bothering him too long. Jim had held his hand on Sherlock's bare thigh for ten minutes and counted to six twitches, he had laughed, and Sherlock had been happy to amuse him.

Sherlock was looking forward to finally show of his boyfriend to his family. They would see he was not so incapable of relationships as they thought he was. His uncle Godfrey was hopefully going to get to eat his words.

The party was going to be a Sunday brunch in his aunt's house outside Redgrave. Jim suggested they make a weekend of it and take in to a bed-and-breakfast for two nights prior to the party.

"First mini-break together?" asked Greg as he visited Sherlock and Molly at the lab on Friday to collect some of Sherlock's paperwork. "Things are getting serious."

"Really?" Sherlock looked up from his microscope were he was studying, for the forth time, some sand they had found in the lungs of the first victim.

He had his overnight bag and violin case stacked by the door. It had long since been agreed in the Holmes-family that Sherlock never had to buy gifts, and would instead play requests on the violin on Christmases and birthdays. This rule derived mostly from a Christmas, about twenty years ago, when he had gifted his mother with the cleaned and mounted skeleton of their recently demised cat.

"I'd say so," said Greg as he casually took up the overnight bag and placed it on the table to look through it.

Sherlock had long since stopped caring that his friends made spontaneous searches of his luggage, flat, and sometimes person. It was their habit, and it showed they really cared for him. At the moment they were trying to make him quit smoking. He was sure the alcohol was next on their stop-Sherlock-having-fun-list, though Greg let him keep the bottle of fine bourbon that he had packed to share with Jim.

"It shows that he is willing to stand you for longer amounts of time," continued Greg, and closed the bag. "That's always a good thing. Especially when it comes to you."

Molly nodded enthusiastically. Sherlock couldn't help to smile at this. That was what he really wanted, wasn't it? Someone that could stand him. And Sherlock really liked Jim, very, very much.

Jim picked him up outside the hospital. He had a yellow cabriolet Porsche, Sherlock pretended to be impressed because he knew Jim was proud of the car, even if it was illogical to own a car, especially a sports-car, when you spent most of your life in the central parts of London.

Arriving at the B'n'B Sherlock's hair was quite a mess after driving with the top down the whole way. Not that he cared for his hair to any greater extent, but it was nice when it stayed in one place and didn't fizz all around his head. Jim said he looked cute, though it did not feel too encouraging when the B'n'B owner gave him an amused look. Sherlock hugged his violin case to his chest for support.

What then made things even worse was that they bumped into John Watson and his silly looking girlfriend on the way up to their room. Jim and John looked at each other like two roosters right before a great cockfight.

Sherlock was still surprised, and a bit curious, over that he actually cared to remember the man. He still thought John attractive, even though the man's morals and conduct was lacking. Sherlock noted the obvious display in which John was holding on to his girlfriend.

"You also going to Marjorie's party?" John asked Sherlock politely.

"She is my aunt," said Sherlock, looking away over the the head of the shorter doctor-capatin.

"You have lost weight," John frowned.

"Come on, Sherly," Jim huffed and pulled Sherlock's arm. "I need to get to bed."

"But visible only five fifteen," said Sherlock.

He did not resist the pull though, and he certainly didn't resist when Jim pushed him down on the bed in their room and continued to ravish him quite pleasantly.

Jim had fallen asleep some hours later. Sherlock stood, sticky, sweaty, and slightly numb from the waist down, by the open window. He smoked one of cigarettes he had managed to smuggle passed Greg. He was naked but wrapped in a large white sheet. On the patio below John Watson was slow dancing with his girlfriend, seemingly lost in a world if their own. Sherlock inhaled the smoke deeply, stubbed the cigarette on the sill, and returned to bed.

He called to check in with Greg at five thirty in the morning, but his friend must have screened his calls because no one was picking up. He left a message telling Greg exactly what he thought of this rude behaviour. Sherlock then reviewed the case notes in his mind again until Jim woke up and demanded breakfast.

"I can't understand it," murmured Sherlock over his single cup of heavily sugared tea. "I must be missing something."

"Mmm," said Jim, who was reading the London Times on his iPad, and eating a full English breakfast that made Sherlock's stomach curl.

Sherlock could get used to this, watching Jim eat breakfast, having good sex, and not being watched over by the parental worries of Greg and Mycroft.

He ignored John Watson and his girlfriend as they entered the dining room, and directed his attention to his phone, and his research of water-currents in the Thames. He smiled when Jim took hold of his free hand laying on the table.

They shared the half the bottle of bourbon at lunchtime, together with some cheeses and bread from bought from the nearest Tesco. Sherlock managed to eat an entire roll of bread, a testimony to how hard Jim had worked him during the night.

They enjoyed their day talking about gossip from the hospital, comparing different search routes for information on the Internet, and snogging. By the time evening arrived Sherlock counted himself as in love.

Sherlock only called Greg four times during the day, but with no result.

He met up with John Watson once more outside the lobby, while waiting on Jim to bring the car around. The man didn't have his girl with him this time, she was probably in the rest-room.

"Going out for supper?" asked John.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed. "So are you, and you are going to the cinema later. The latest banal comedy with some new starlet. Her choice I guess..." Sherlock glanced the doctor over. "Yes, definitely her choice."

"How do you know that?" John frowned.

"Your shirt is too nice for a night in, the edges of the tickets in your back pocket on are showing, the only cinema close by has two films showing this evening, and I don't think your girl is a horror-fan. Your face was also resigned when I mentioned the cinema. You are not looking forward to it." Sherlock perked up when he saw Jim's Porsche arrive at the curb.

"That was amazing," said John.

"N-no it wasn't," stammered Sherlock, suddenly flushed.

"Yes, it was," John smiled, but then looked more serious. "Be sure to eat something, you really are too thin, and you look exhausted."

Jim honked the car-horn twice. Sherlock jumped, and hurried over to the car, seating himself in the passenger seat.

"I really don't like that guy," muttered Jim.

Sherlock was still too shocked over that he had been called 'amazing' that he only could hum in response. The only time Jim had called him amazing was during orgasm, and Sherlock was not entirely sure that Jim hadn't been talking about himself. It was time for a experiment.

He had a stab at eating a pasta salad, he left about half if it on the plate. Jim talked about the virus he had found on Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock listened and nodded, his mind busy with how he was going to go forth, without hurting Jim, or telling him that it was an experiment. The best thing for it finally, he decided, was honesty.

Back at their room at the B'n'B Sherlock cuddled up to Jim. They kissed and Jim started to move Sherlock toward the bed. Sherlock let himself be pushed down, and exposed his neck to Jim's kisses.

"I love you," he whispered.

The kisses stopped.

"What?" Jim looked up into Sherlock's face.

"Nothing," said Sherlock quickly.

"Hng," said Jim, going back to kissing Sherlock's neck.

"Mm," agreed Sherlock and closed his eyes, letting the kisses continue, but this time more hesitant.

"I didn't mean it," said Sherlock. "What I just said just now, I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't," said Jim, his movements coming back to their normal speed.

There seemed to be no difference in the way Jim had sex with him that night, and Sherlock convinced himself that it was all right. He had said the words too soon, that's all, Jim needed time to adjust. They orgasmed at the same time, falling into each other's arms.

Sherlock was able to go to sleep of pure exhaustion. He still woke up around six to see Jim putting on his shoes.

"Jim?"

"Go back to sleep," Jim moved over and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I got a call from the hospital. There has been a server malfunction."

"What about Auntie Marjorie's party?"

"Sherlock, there are lives at stake, if the servers don't work, the doctors can't get the patient's journals."

Sherlock didn't say that he knew the most important parts of the patients journals were paper-copied in case of just such an emergency.

"Look," Jim smiled. "I see you when you get back tonight, right?"

"Right," said Sherlock.

"Good."

Jim left and Sherlock sat still on the bed, mourning another plan being shot down by James Moriarty. He bought a new packet of cigarettes and smoked half of them his before he arrived to the party.

He was sure that everything would work itself out eventually. Jim had just been surprised by Sherlock's words. To be honest, when you thought about it, Sherlock saying those three words was probably the least expected thing he could have said. His fingers clenched around the handle to the violin case.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"Where's your young man?"

"Work emergency," Sherlock looked around the room. "You brought Greg and Molly?"

"They needed to get some country air," Mycroft cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Is everything all right? You smell awfully like tobacco."

"Jim smokes," lied Sherlock, and Mycroft knew he lied.

Suddenly Sherlock began to panic. The feeling of 'find-Jim-and-make-everything-alright-right-now' came over him. It was like a sixth sense grabbing hold of him, which was ridiculous since such a thing did not exist.

"Look, I need to get back to town."

Sherlock looked around, seeing more people arrive to the party, among them people that would mock him for still seeming to be single. And John Watson, who was looking right at him. Damn, he must have seen Jim leave. Sherlock actually felt sick to his stomach.

"I'll call a car for you," Mycroft took up his phone from his inside pocket without question. "Meanwhile, go play for auntie Marjorie, or else we'll never hear the end of it."

Sherlock hurried over to his mother explaining that he couldn't stay for the rest of the party. Efficient woman that she was, she had ordered his impromptu concert within moments.

He began playing a melody of his own composing, it sounded way to happy for the turmoil of thoughts now roaring within him. What if he really had scared Jim away? Was he really in love with him? And... and what if he was alone again? Dark thoughts whirled in his head as he automatically played on. A soft hand was placed on his back.

"Sherlock, sweetheart, your car is here."

Sherlock looked at his mother's worried but smiling face. He lowered the bow, and noticed that he was out if breath, his arms ached a little, and sweaty tufts of his hair waere in his eyes. The violin felt warm, he must have played it very intensely. How did that happen?

There were sounds of scattered applauds from the gathered onlookers, but most of them just looked shocked. Sherlock wondered what he had played. It was not the first time his mood had taken unconsious possession his bow, though it had never happened in public before.

His mother softly took the violin from him and went to pack it in its case.

"That was... lovely, dear," auntie Marjorie gave Sherlock a hug, and then she patted his cheek. "Thank you, and you made it all by yourself?"

"Yes..." Sherlock looked over to see if he could spot Mycroft's car.

Thankfully his brother was right there, with Greg, leading him in the right direction. Molly followed with Sherlock's bag and case.

"He composed that?" he heard John Watson's amazed voice rise above the murmurs. "That was brilliant!"

Sherlock felt like he was going to cry. His two friends and brother stuffed Sherlock in the black car and got in behind him.

"We are taking you to him," said Mycroft. "If it works out, fine. If it doesn't we will be there for you."

"You'll be missing the party," murmured Sherlock, still half lost in his panic attack.

"True," nodded Mycroft. "But you are more important."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," Greg leaned over and put a hand on Sherlock's knee.

"I insult you, and am rude. I do dangerous things, hurt myself, and people think I'm a freak."

"Yes to all, Sherlock." said Greg with half a smile. "But you are my friend. You saved my life the first time we met, remember? Now you are a very good help for me and the Yard, and one day I'm sure that you are going to be all that you can be," he grinned. "And I'm going to be there to take advantage of it."

"Yes," nodded Molly eagerly. "I was just the loony girl in the morgue before you arrived."

"You still are," muttered Sherlock.

"Yes, but now I have you three," she smiled. "Not every girl is so lucky."

Sherlock smiled at his friends, feeling almost tears in his eyes again.

"Now," Greg cleared his throat. "Is there some kind of James Bond-device in this car that turns to a bar? I need a drink."

Mycroft obliged by turning down a panel, unveiling a full bottle of gin and a soda-streamer.

"That is as James Bond it's going to get I'm afraid," he said. "The guvernment works on a slightly different budget than Ian Fleming's brain."

Sherlock was given one drink to calm his nerves as they road the car into London. He let the other three talk amongst themselves, while his own brain busied itself with thoughts of Jim, the floaters, what the hell he had been playing at the party, Jim, and why Greg was wearing what looked like Mycroft's trousers and Jim.

They arrived outside Jim's apartment building sooner than expected. Sherlock swallowed.

"Go get you man back," said Molly, with a little drunk giggle.

"We'll wait here," said Mycroft. "If you are staying give us a call."

Sherlock nodded and got out of the car. He took the stairs up to the third floor with long leaps, skipping every second or third step. Taking his courage in he preceded the bell to Jim's door.

Jim opened within moments.

"Sherlock," he smiled broadly. "Did you leave the party early? How did you get home?"

"My brother's car," Sherlock steeped inside, looking around. "Hospital didn't need you then?"

"It sorted it self out before I got there," Jim shrugged with one shoulder. "What are you looking for? There is no one else here. Baby, calm down."

"I'm sorry," sighed Sherlock and relaxed. "I didn't mean to come off like a jealous boyfriend. This is all so new to me, and then I said that thing..."

"It's all right," said Jim, kissing him. "Now lets take you home, and..."

"Your third shirt button is undone," Sherlock frowned. "Only your third button."

"What?"

Not even thinking, he moved passed Jim to wards the bathroom. On the other side of the door stood a very tall, blond, muscular man, he was also very naked. The man grinned at Sherlock.

"Hello," he said in a amused voice. "Jimmy?" he called over Sherlock's shoulder. "I thought you said he was handsome."

Sherlock paled. The comfort in which the man moved. The condescending smile. The razor in his hand. This nan had been here before, even before Sherlock. He turned in the door-frame, walked right passed Jim, out of the apartment, and down the stairs.

He was going to continue down the street in a daze, but Greg and the chauffeur caught up with him, and folded him inside the car.

"We saw everything," said Mycroft. "That swine."

Sherlock noticed that there was a screen folded down from the roof of the car, the images from four different camera-angles of Jim's home. The bottom right showed the naked man from behind. Molly hiccuped.

Jim came running out to the pavement.

"Sherlock, please, I never meant the two of you to meet."

"Think very carefully what you are saying to my friend at this moment," said Greg showing up his D.I badge. "Because the man to which this car belong has the authority to give me a licence to kill."

Jim held up his hands, and took a step backwards.

"Good boy," Greg gut into the car and closed the door.

"Drive," said Mycroft.

The car stared to roll immediately. Sherlock let himself be surrounded by Molly's arms. Before he let his emotions take the better of him, he managed to think that a soft female chest was actually a really comfortable place to seek comfort, and he had thought it was Mycroft that had the mummy-issues.

At that moment Greg's phone chimmed, he answered it in a irritated voice.

"Another body in the river," he said after a moment.

"Take me there," said Sherlock, his voice muffled by Molly's arms.

"You are not feeling well..."

"Take me there."

"We have been drinking..."

"Get me to the fucking body!" screamed Sherlock, making them all jump.

"Fine," Greg gave the address to the chauffeur. "But I'm calling DI Dimmock, I can't be held responsible for the crime scene in my state."

"Are we there yet?" murmured Sherlock into Molly's chest.

At the crime scene Mycroft stayed in the car, fanatically making calls on his phone. He had promised Sherlock not to hurt Jim, but it wasn't certain how much of that promise he tended to keep. Greg and Molly stood by, arm in arm to support each other in looking less unstable from the alcohol they consumed.

Sherlock looked at the female corpse, bloated, blue, slightly decomposing after three days in the polluted water. Couldn't she have surfaced a day earlier? So many things would have been different. He stared hard at the body. Suddenly it was all so clear to him.

"I'm quitting my job."

"What?" Dimmock looked up at him, hands on hips and confused.

"Tomorrow," said Sherlock, nodding to himself. "I'm quitting my job tomorrow. I'm going to start up business on my own."

"Sherlock?" asked Greg, feeling slightly worried over the determined look in Sherlock's eyes.

"But I'm still going to need the access lab and to the supplies..." he rubbed his chin. "I need specimens... Maybe half-time is enough..."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Consulting detective."

Sherlock liked the sound of it, his mind raced, away from the crime scene, away from his friends and brother, away from Jim.

"There is no such thing," snorted Dimmock.

"I'll the only one in the world then," Sherlock turned back to the body on the ground. "Her lip is cracked. Before death. He didn't use violence on the two others. Either he's getting impatient, more violent, or... he chose the wrong victim. She fought back, really fought back, look at the state of her nails. The killer must have scratch-marks, bites even. She looks like a biter. She could very well have hurt her lip when she bit him."

"What does a biter look like?" frowned Greg.

Sherlock just huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Give me a pen and paper," Sherlock held out his palm to Dimmock. "I need to write a note."

Dimmock narrowed his eyes but supplied Sherlock with the notepad from his inner pocket. Sherlock wrote the note, tore out the page and handed the notebook back.

"Molly," he said turning around to walk away along the shore, passing two uniformed police men who had stepped aside for him. "When you do the post-mortem in the morning, see if you can find any sand in the lungs."

"Right," said Molly and wobbled a little against Greg. "I'm not the only coroner there, you know."

"You are the only one that matters."

"Where are you going?"called Greg.

"To get drunk."

"Sherlock!"

"Don't worry. I'm going home, alone, just going to find a cab."

"Call me when you get home!"

"Yes, mummy. Don't worry. I'll be a good boy."

Sherlock walked the shoreline for a bit before reaching a bridge and a stone-staircase up to that bridge.

He nodded to a homeless young man he was quite familiar with and gave him a fifty pound note wrapped around the message he had written earlier. The young man gave Sherlock half a smile and held out the wine bottle he was drinking from.

Sherlock took the bottle, whipped the opening with his coat sleeve, and took a swig. Red, cheap, and strong, perfect.

Sherlock said thanks, gave the bottle back and continued up the stairs of the bridge. There was a road there. Some cars passed by, it wouldn't be hard to catch hold of a cab. As soon as he visited that off-licence over there.

He wondered how long Mycroft had had cameras in Jim's flat. And why hadn't anybody found out earlier that Jim was seeing the Norse god lookalike.

"I'm handsome," said Sherlock to the middle-aged, part Korean, woman behind the resister as he paid for his bottle of vodka and a pack of smokes, light, low tar, that would taste like deluded water.

"Sure, love," said the woman with a surprisingly Scottish accent that basically painted her entire life out before Sherlock. "Right handsome."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, left the store, and flagged down a cab.

He was already a quarter into the vodka when the cab arrived to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson opened the front door for him, but didn't say anything as he passed. Her face showed pity though.

Feeling a bit sour over that his violin was still with Mycroft he turned the seldom used radio. Some sad atrocious pop music blared out the speakers, Sherlock let it play on, and lit up a cigarette. Reluctantly he sent a text to Greg, telling that he was home.

He was on his fifth cigarette, more than halfway through the vodka, and was actually humming with the horrible radio, when his phone chimed. It was a picture message.

A yellow cabriolet Porsche with the word 'fuckwit' painted in big red letters over the side. Sherlock smiled and raised his bottle to all the graffiti artists in the world.

Ten minutes later he noticed that he was going to pass out, so he stubbed the cigarette, and laid down on the couch. He looked at the picture again and felt really good. Nobody fucks with Sherlock Holmes and gets away with it.

He woke up with a terrible headache the next morning, or rather the next lunchtime. There was a blanket over his lower body, and a brown folder of papers on the table.

There was also a glass of water, a hermetically packed, triangular, cheese sandwich, and two white pills. One of Mycroft's henchmen had visited. Probably that woman, Anthea, since a man wouldn't have thought to put a blanket over Sherlock.

The papers was the preliminary coroners-report on the latest body. To Sherlock's delight, there was also a photo of the indentation of her teeth, showing how one of her bite marks would appear.

Swallowing down the pills, and some water, Sherlock opened up the plastic to the sandwich. He didn't like the smell, or sight, of it but he knew it would help to demise his headache. Taking a small bite of the edge of the bread, he looked over the photographs of the body.

His throat was sore after the smoking, which made it difficult to swallow. Sherlock struggled through almost half the sandwich before getting up from the sofa. It was time to do some legwork.

After having changed his clothes, and done a quick shave, he went out. He brought the picture of the woman's bloated face and the impression of her teeth.

The air made his head feel a little better. He took up his phone and made a search for all the small medical clinics in the centre London area. He was going to visit all of them showing the teeth. Human bites were easily infected. If the murderer was bitten, he would choose a smaller, private, clinic. It was a long-shot, but it was a good one if it hit.

Greg messaged him twice asking about what he was doing, and once about Jim's car. Sherlock didn't answer any of them. Molly also sent him a text saying that not much has changed yet since the preliminary report, except for evidence of some more defensive injuries. It supported the theory that the murderer could be injured.

The third clinic made Sherlock flinch. The woman in a white coat talking to the nurse behind the desk was John Watson's girlfriend.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked. "Is there something I can help you with?"

She looked tired and a little irritated, not like someone returning from a romantic weekend with her boyfriend.

"I need to know if you have had any patients with human bite and, or, scratch injuries in the last week."

"I- I can't tell you that."

"Recognise these?" Sherlock held up the picture if the teeth indentations, making sure the photo of the dead woman's face was slightly visible.

"What are you...?"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked over at John who just had come out of a examination room with a older man. The white coat didn't suit him, it looked too small for his personality, like it was something he had settled with.

"What are you doing here? Are you all right?"

Sherlock immediately noticed the tension between the doctor-captain and his boss-slash-girlfriend. What could have happened in the last days to turn the dancing couple at the B'n'B to this? Stilling his curiosity, Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I'm conducting a investigation on the behalf if the Scotland Yard," he said. "And I need to know if you treated any human bite wounds in the last three days."

"This is..." the female doctor began.

"Sarah," John cut her off. "I'll take care of this,"

"John! I don't thi-..."

"I'll take care if it," there was an edge to his voice. "Mr Holmes, if you would step into my office?"

Sherlock did a slight shrug, and stepped over the offered threshold. John followed and closed the door behind them.

"I see the two of have broken up then," said Sherlock. "It was only a matter of time. Now, do you recognise these teeth?"

"You said 'Scotland Yard'?" John took the paper, but didn't look at it.

"I'm a consultant detective," Sherlock straightened. "A victim may or may not have bitten her killer, and he may or may not have gotten an infection..."

"And he may or may not have come here? Sounds like you are grasping at straws."

"That's your opinion."

"Look," John sighed, rubbing his brow. "I realise we have gotten on the wrong foot since the beginning. I was wearing that horrible jumper that my mom gave me., and by the looks of it your mother had dressed you as well. I said some bad things... I just want you to know... that I... I like you..."

"Except for the rudeness, the eavesdropping, the geekiness, the drinking, the freakiness..."

"Well, as a doctor, I would advise you to drink less alcohol and eat more healthy food, but that is beside the point." John took a step forward, meeting Sherlock's eyes head on. "I like you. I like you, just the way you are!"

Sherlock stared, his mouth opened and closed. John's eyes were so blue and so close. He swallowed. There was a sound coming out of his throat, but was interrupted by the signal of his phone. Distracted he looked down on the display.

Sand in the lungs / Molly

"I- I have to leave." Sherlock fled.

"Eat something!" called John after him.

He quickly got hold of a cab and seated himself in the back seat. His mind boggled and thoughts spun before him all the way to St. Bart's.

"He said that?" asked Molly. "'Just the way you are'?"

"Yes," Sherlock bit his lower lips as he looked at the new grains of sand under the microscope.

"And this is someone you don't like? And he says he's not gay?"

"Yeah..." Sherlock met her eyes.

"Yeah," she nodded.

They worked on quietly for a moment Sherlock finally managed to identify three riversides in London from where the sand could originate, and that consisted with the currents. He sent them off to Greg in a text. Molly cleared her throat.

"What are we doing on your birthday tomorrow?"

"Dinner at my place, as usual."

"Are you cooking again?"

"I've been practising since last time," he lied.

"Have you?"

"Is that Greg's shirt you are wearing?"

Molly blinked.

"I'm looking forward to your dinner," she said.

"Thanks," Sherlock smirked.

He took up his phone and discreetly started researching recipes. Cooking shouldn't be that hard, really. He was a very good chemist after all.

Ten minutes later Sherlock revived a text from Greg telling that the police had found drag marks on one the mentioned riversides. Sherlock couldn't be out the door quickly enough.

The next few hours were spent with the police, looking over the riverside by an old disused harbour area. They found another set of drag marks in the sand. Sherlock identified what he thought was a incriminating bloodstain in nearby shed, though it needed to be sent to the lab to know for sure. But Sherlock and Greg felt quite pleased since they might have disturbed the killer's routine or hiding place. Hopefully it would lead him to a mistake. All in all it actually felt like a productive day.

When Sherlock got home, his violin was waiting for him on the couch. Sherlock sighed, and sat down next to his beloved instrument. He thought about the last time he had played it, and he felt sad. Then he felt lonely. Then he missed Jim.

"Bastard," he muttered, and unpacked the violin from the case. "Fuckwit."

He placed the violin under his chin, and moved the bow over the strings in some simple scales. He slowly moved on to Mozart and mixed in some Liszt just for the fun of it.

At the stroke of midnight he played Happy Birthday once, and then put the instrument down. Thirty five years. Sherlock had gotten the violin on his fifteenth birthday, now exactly twenty years ago.

He put down the violin, bit his lower lip and looked out the window. There was a sudden hard knock on the door downstairs. Sherlock frowned, generally he would let Mrs. Hudson get it, but it was past midnight, and it could be something to do with the case.

He was quite surprised when he opened the door to find John Watson standing on the other side. He likes me just the way I am.

"I'm so sorry for disturbing you so late, but it's important. I think I found your guy."

"What?"

"Your guy with the bite," John rustled up a paper from his jacket pocket, it was the teeth indentation, Sherlock must have forgotten it in John's office. "I think I found him."

"I'll my coat," Sherlock dashed up the stairs, and was down again within seconds.

He followed John out to the side walk were a taxi was waiting, they both got in. John gave the name of a small hospital in the north of town.

"How?" asked Sherlock, working to piece together the puzzle in his brain without being emotionally affected.

"It seemed important," said John. "You said it was a killer out there, and you left the picture of the girl. How could I not help? And as a doctor, other doctors are more likely to tell me things, rather than a random obsessed looking stranger of the street."

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled, but then schooled his features back to business. "Tell me about it."

"Well, as I said earlier, I thought you were grasping at straws, but it was still a good idea. I called a few people, and visited some clinics and hospitals..."

"Hm," Sherlock nodded, it must have been quite a bit of legwork involved for the limping doctor.

"Then I met this ambulance driver, that told me he had been called to pick up a man who had fainted in a mall a few hours ago. The patient had a very high fever from a badly infected human bite on his arm..."

"And you thought only someone who wants to keep such a thing a secret doesn't look for help." It was not a question.

"Yes."

"A good deduction," said Sherlock. "Did you look at the bite yourself?"

"He was sleeping, so I didn't want to alarm him. But I showed the picture to the doctor, and she was positive it was the same. She agreed to keep the patient under surveillance until I got back with you."

"How did she agree to that?" asked Sherlock as the taxi pulled up in front of the hospital.

"I used my charming smile of course," grinned John, paying the cabbie. "And, also, they usually don't dismiss feverish patients in the middle of the night."

Sherlock gave John a eye roll, and the doctor laughed. Sherlock liked the sound of that laugh.

They stepped inside the hospital. John immediately gave a waive to a white-coated woman in her fifties, who was standing by the nurses station. She smiled tiredly.

"Doctor Cole, this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes," said John. "He is the one who wants to look at the bite wound."

"Hello," said doctor Cole and shook Sherlock's hand. "I thought it looked a bit suspicious when I saw it, but the man was too delirious for questions ."

They were shown into a long corridor on the second floor. Behind the forth door to the right was a dark room with a sleeping man in a bed. A male nurse was sitting by his side, reading a book by the light of a small torch.

"Take off the gauze," said Sherlock, taking up his phone from his pocket.

John and Doctor Cole obliged, while the nurse stood by if the patient should awake. It was definitely an infected bite wound, irritated, puss-filled and ugly. Sherlock took a few pictures with his phone.

"What do you think?" asked John.

Sherlock took up the indentation picture, and compared it to the ones on his phone. It was a clear match.

"It's him. Revenge from beyond the grave," he said. "How poetic."

"Chance in a million," said John in a awed voice.

Sherlock sent away a text to Greg. The detective inspector answered it within thirty seconds, and said that he'd be there in fifteen minutes. Two uniformed police officers arrived two minutes later.

"A bit anti-climatic," said Sherlock, sitting himself down on one if the orange chairs by the reception. "But interesting."

He studied the pictures of the infected wound, and wondered if he could reproduce a similar effect in an experiment. Probably not, he needed live tissue for that... but for science... He looked down at his arm.

"Stop it," said Mycroft's voice from behind him. "I know exactly what you are thinking, Sherlock. And no!"

"Spoilsport," muttered Sherlock.

Mycroft gave him a quick glare, and shook hands with John. Greg and his sour sergeant had already passed them toward the lift.

"Was Greg at your place?"asked Sherlock. "He got here awfully fast for someone who lives on the other side of the city."

"None of your business, dear brother," said Mycroft. "Happy birthday, by the way. You'll get my gift this evening."

"Can't wait," Sherlock got up from his seat. "John? Do you want to share a taxi back?"

"Thanks," said John. "That would be nice."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look, Sherlock gave the look right back.

On the way back Sherlock tried to figure out a way to see John again. If he had read the signs right, the man wasn't as heterosexual as he claimed.

There was still the issue of John once stealing Jim's boyfriend, and the fact maybe John thought he was going to do the same again by moving in on Sherlock. He remembered all the obvious displays Jim had done to show John their relationship. The thought of being some sort of spoil of war between the two men, who obviously hated each other, wasn't appealing. Sherlock's heart was enough broken as it was.

"So," John asked as they were halfway through their quiet journey. "It's your birthday?"

"Thirty-fifth," answered Sherlock.

"I'll be forty in two months," he blushed. "I don't know why I told you that. Hrm. Happy birthday."

"Thanks," Sherlock smiled.

When they arrived at Baker Street Sherlock moved to pay the driver, but John stopped him.

"It's your birthday, it's on me."

"Do you want to come to my party?" Sherlock almost stumbled over his words. "I mean, it's not really a party. Just a dinner, with Greg, Mycroft and Molly... and Mrs Hudson, she's my landlady... I'm cooking!"

"I would love to," smiled John.

"Seven o clock," Sherlock felt himself blushing and got out of the car very quickly.

Up in the flat Sherlock looked in the empty fridge and panicked a little, but then calmed down when realising the supermarket would open in five hours. Then he panicked a little again over that he hadn't been to the supermarket for several months, just the little corner shop at the end of the street.

He to calm himself down he retrieved an old emergency packet of cigarettes from behind the radiator in his bedroom. Not wanting to smoke inside, Mycroft had a nose like a bloodhound, he went out for a walk.

When the pack had run out, he found himself outside Jim's apartment building. Sherlock looked at the door for five minutes. Then he sighed, hailed a cab, went home, and went to sleep.

He was woken up by the message signal his phone. Greg had gotten a confession from the formerly feverish, now recovered, suspect. The blood trace they found at the old harbour had also matched. Sherlock smirked, and then choked since he noticed the time was almost three in the afternoon.

The supermarket was totally illogical, and full of idiots. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. The woman on the checkout looked at him like he was the crazy one because he, aside from his ingredients, bought ten boxes of baking soda, fifteen rolls of aluminium, and three litres of caustic powder.

"Experiment," he said, and she looked at him even more strangely.

What did she know? She was having an affair with the manager, and stealing from the till. He got out of the supermarket as fast as he could. Now he remembered why he hadn't been there for so long.

Sherlock had flour in his hair when someone knocked on the front door at half passed six. He could hear Mrs Hudson speaking with whoever it was downstairs. He froze when he heard John's voice answer her back.

He hurried out if the flat to the top if the stairs. John was standing in the hallway with a plastic bag. Two bottles of wine, Sherlock deduced. John smiled up at him.

"Hello! Sorry for disturbing you so early. I was just going by to leave some paperwork at the clinic, but I don't want to bring the bottles there, so I thought I'd leave them here in the meantime."

"Liar," smirked Sherlock. "You don't carry a briefcase, or folder, or anything."

"You got me there," John was still smiling. "I was actually curious about what happened with your case... Is something burning?"

"Oh, bugger," Sherlock swore and ran back to his flat.

There was smoke coming out of the oven. John quickly passed him, and quickly located his asbestos gloves, and tried to save the meat that was now rendered un-saveable. He put it on the table, scooting aside three open baking soda packages that Sherlock had been preparing for a experiment.

"what tempature did you put the oven on?" asked John.

"The usual?" said Sherlock poking the burned meat with a sharp knife, it bled. "Interesting..."

"Is this soup blue?" John was peaking inside a pot on the stove.

"Unfortunate chemical reaction," Sherlock looked around for his experiment notebook.

"Do you want some help cooking?"

"Can you cook?" Sherlock looked up from noting down his theories around the burned meat.

"I know my way around an egg," shrugged John, and walked over to the refrigerator. "You have any eggs?"

"Ah!" Sherlock tried to stop him but John had already opened the door.

"Are these human eyes in the pickle jar?"

"There all were on the donor list," said Sherlock, looking for signs of disgust in John's face, there were none. "It's an experiment..."

"You are so weird," laughed John, it actually sounded like a good thing when he said it.

He took out the egg carton, and placed it on the side of the stove. Sherlock exhaled.

Sherlock then told John about every detail of the case. The man seemed genially interested, and even exclaimed true admiration and praise at certain points in the story.

"You should write these things down," said John as he poured Sherlock a glass of wine. "People love to read about real mysteries."

"What people?"

"People in general," shrugged John, peaked inside the oven while sipping his own glass of wine.

"I don't trust people in general," said Sherlock. "What's in there?"

"Oven-pancake."

"Fine."

"It's good."

Sherlock smiled.

"Are we disturbing something?"

Greg, Molly, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson were all standing in the doorway to the kitchen looking at them. They were all grinning.

"Hello," said John holding out his hand to Mycroft, who was the closest. "John Watson, we met briefly at Marjorie's party."

"I remember," Mycroft shook his hand. "How do you do, Doctor Watson?"

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," said Molly, and hugged him.

She was holding a blue package, a big hardback book by the looks if it, probably about anatomy. Sherlock patted her back as they hugged.

"What disaster have you cooked up this time?" asked Greg, tossing Sherlock a box of rosin, topped with a red ribbon bow.

"Actually," said Sherlock, looking at his gift. "This time I had help."

"We appreciate that," said Mycroft.

He smiled to John, who blushed a little and then hurried away to take his pancake out of the oven. Mycroft grinned and handed Sherlock a gift certificate to have a new suit fitted.

The blue soup wasn't that bad, if you looked away from the fact that it was blue, and tasted of onion that Sherlock hadn't used to make it. No one at the table was the kind of people that looked away from fact, except for perhaps Mrs Hudson, but she was too kind to lie.

"That was awful, dearie," she said with a sympathetic smile. "You really should come down to mine, and let me teach you some one day."

"Thank you," said Sherlock, and emptied his wineglass.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," said Greg, patting Sherlock's shoulder. "We like you just the way you are."

"To Sherlock," echoed Molly, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, all raising their glasses. "Just the way he is!"

John threw him a curious glance. Sherlock blushed. He was saved from further embarrassment when there was a knock on the door from downstairs. Sherlock gestured to Mrs. Hudson to keep seated, and then hurried down to the door.

Sherlock was shocked to find Jim on his doorstep, dressed in a suit and holding a bottle of wine.

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard it was your birthday," said Jim. "I really like to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to you," said Sherlock, looking away.

"Please," Jim stepped forward, catching Sherlock's eye.

A moment of weakness overcame Sherlock and he let Jim kiss him. He had missed being kissed so much. He had missed Jim.

"Sherlock," purred Jim. "Don't worry about that guy. it wasn't real. This is real. You and me. Things haven't been the same without... What's he doing here?"

Sherlock looked behind him to the top of the stairs where his friends, brother, and John stood. John walked down the stairs, holding his jacket and looking like he was going to explode.

"Don't worry about me," John said with a growl. "I'm leaving."

"Yeah, you do that," said Jim putting a possessive arm around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock great mind froze, actually froze. He couldn't move. He just stared between Jim and John.

"No," John stopped halfway out if the door. "Not this time, Moriarty. I'm not going to..." He took a breath. "Would you step outside?"

"What?" Jim laughed. "What is this? The Middle Ages?"

"Step outside!" John pushed Jim's shoulder. "We are going to take care of this once and for all."

"Fine," Jim gritted his teeth, and thrust the wine bottle at Sherlock. "You are on!"

They both stepped out to the side walk. Sherlock followed, and so did his friends and brother.

After a moment of hesitation Jim threw out the first punch, hitting John in the cheek. John staggered, but then rushed forward, taking Jim in a headlock. Jim fought back by trying to tip John over.

"Aren't you going to do something?" Molly asked Greg.

"Not yet," said Greg, he actually looked a bit excited at the prospect of a fight.

"John has military training," noted Mycroft.

"He's a doctor," noted Greg.

"Informants tell me he had bad days."

"Who are we rooting for?" asked Molly, as Jim and John fell halfway over, and started wrestling around, screaming obscenities at each other.

"John, of course," said 'Greg. "He likes Sherlock just as he is."

"But then again," said Sherlock, coming out if his stupor. "John bastardly stole Jim's last boyfriend."

"Tough choice," nodded Greg.

Then suddenly, John got in a lucky punch sending Jim hard to the ground. Everyone could hear the air going out of Jim. Greg rushed forwards to hold John back to keep him from hurting Jim more.

"Stop it now!" he called. "You had your fun!"

Sherlock gave the bottle to Molly and hurried over to Jim, who was gasping. As Sherlock kneeled by him, Jim took hold of his arms, and pulled himself into Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock couldn't help but to lean in to him.

"Fine," John pulled himself free from Greg. "Fine! I'm done. I'm officially done with this shit!"

They looked on as John quickly walked away. With fisted hands, but without a limp, Sherlock noticed. He turned to Jim, who was bleeding from a cut on his left eyebrow.

"We belong together," Jim said. You and me, Sherlock. We fit together."

"Yeah..." Sherlock bit his lower lip, thoughts going through his head at maximum speed. "I... I'm just going to need more than that."

He let go of Jim, and stood up. As he passed Molly he took hold of the bottle. She didn't let go, but followed along as he pulled the bottle with her attached to it, inside and up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson followed more slowly.

Greg and Mycroft entered the flat a few minutes later. Molly was, meticulous in her intoxication, dividing Jim's bottle between their five remaining glasses. John's sixth stood empty over by the sink. Sherlock stared at his own glass, but wasn't really seeing it.

"We sent him home," said Mycroft. "He promised not to bother you any more."

"Hm," Sherlock nodded.

"Hell of a way to end a birthday party," said Greg, gulping down his wine.

"You did the right choice, dearie," said Mrs. Hudson. "That man reminded me too much of my late husband."

Sherlock was put to bed not long after that. He suffered the indignation of being undressed down to his t-shirt and boxers by his friends. Molly giggled the entire time.

He lay awake for two hours, thinking about things before getting up and pulling on his robe. Greg was sleeping on the sofa, with Molly, draped over him, also sleeping.

"They look so beautiful, don't they?" said Mycroft softly from the chair by the fireplace. "My darlings."

He had Sherlock's laptop on his knee. At the moment, Sherlock didn't really care.

"I know how you like to watch," he smirked.

"Don't be crude, brother."

"I suspected you wouldn't settle for just one," said Sherlock, placing himself in the opposite chair. "It's not in your nature."

"But it is in yours."

"Well," Sherlock shrugged. "Are you keeping an eye on me? Don't bother. The flat is clean. I smoked my last emergency pack yesterday, the wine seems to be finished..."

"We just worry about you, that's all," Mycroft looked down at the screen. "Now, about your doctor..."

"He isn't my doctor!" hissed Sherlock.

"It took a bit of digging to find out, but he wasn't the one stealing Jim's boyfriend. It was the other way around."

"What?" Sherlock stilled. "Tell me."

"A contact of mine tells that John Watson was in a relationship with a soldier named Sebastian Moran. On his home-leave Sebastian met up with Jim Moriarty. He then broke up with John, and transferred to special ops. John was distraught, and took on more and more dangerous missions. He saved a lot of people but was shot in the shoulder as a consequence."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock over the screen. Sherlock met his eyes. During the telling of John's past, Sherlock thought back to his mother's party. Remembering that he had been attracted at first sight of John. It had also occurred to Sherlock that he already knew this. He already knew that John was a good guy just by looking at him, not someone who would steal someone's boyfriend. Jim had already proven himself to be a bastard.

"I must find him," Sherlock got up to his feet. "What's his address?"

"Do you want me to call you a car...?"

"No time!" Sherlock grabbed his phone. "Text it to me!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice followed him down the stairs. "Put your trousers on!"

As Sherlock ran down the street in his slippers to hail a cab, his phone beeped. It was an cheap address in the east of London. There was also something about clothes but Sherlock had already dived into a stopping car. He gave the address to the driver,

"Pyjama party is it, guv.?" the driver asked with a hopeful tone, and a glance in his mirror.

"Yeah, yeah," waived Sherlock. "Drive."

How could he had been so wrong? He had been blinded by his false deductions about a silly rabbit jumper; blinded by John's attitude to emotionally protect himself; and later on blinded his own screwed up feelings for Jim.

It was already approaching midnight so the traffic was light. Sherlock shifted in the back-seat, his fingers rapidly tapping the imitation leather. His bare knees were jumping as he moved his feet impatiently. He wished he had John's phone number. He could call and ask Mycroft, but his brother was probably watching Greg and Molly snogging on Sherlock's sofa. Sherlock shivered at the thought.

He arrived to a area of public housing buildings. It looked quite decent, but not a place you choose to live if you had a real choice.

"twenty-four fifty, guv." said the cabbie.

"Do I look like I have any money?" said Sherlock getting out of the cab.

"Oi!"

"My friend will pay," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he hurried toward a five stories building with the right number.

He could hear the cabbie swear in some cockney dialect, the slamming of a front door, and fast steps following him. Sherlock climbed the stairwell, two steps at the time. He dropped one of his slippers halfway, but left it behind.

On the third floor he saw the correct number the second door on the left. He looked at the mail-slot, J. H. Watson. Sherlock knocked resolutely on the door. Then he adjusted his flimsy collar, and pulled some fingers through his hair.

The cabbie, with Sherlock's lost slipper in hand, caught up to him as the door opened John was wearing not much more than Sherlock, though his robe was a red and blue bathrobe. He looked like he had been sleeping until quite recently.

"Good evening, John," said Sherlock with his best smile. "Do you have thirty pounds?"

"Wha-" John blinked, and then stared at Sherlock from head to toe, stopping momentarily at the bare knees and the single bare foot . "Sherlock?"

"Thirty pounds for this nice man who drove me to you waiting arms."

"My what?" John was fiddling with his wallet that he taken from a small table next to the door, as he only found a fifty pound note.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pinched the note from John's fingers and gave it to the cabbie.

"Keep the change."

"I will," said the cabbie and gave John Sherlock's slipper. "Good luck, guv."

Sherlock turned to John, his smile slipping a bit by the sight of the other man's thunderous face.

"You forgot something when you left," said Sherlock nervously.

"Oh? What?" John crossed his arms over his chest.

"You forgot to kiss me good bye."

John blinked the last bit of sleep from his eyes.

"It's still my birthday for four minutes, you know."

"Sherlock, I..."

"I figured you out, John," Sherlock stepped closer, over the threshold.

"You... You have?"

"You got home from Afghanistan, heartbroken, thinking you were done with men..." Sherlock breathed. "You thought you'd stick to women. To keep from getting hurt again. "

John looked away, down to Sherlock's right hand that was now cupping his left. He nodded slowly.

"I can't fall in love with women, but I can be really happy with them."

Sherlock took a step closer, they were so close now. John's warm, erratic, breaths were on his neck.

"Then you met me..."

He placed a hand on each side of John face and tilted it back. Looking down in those blue eyes he saw all he needed to know the answer.

"Yes." John blinked. "But what about Jim?"

"Fuckwit," said Sherlock and closed the distance between their lips.

The End/or the beginning...


End file.
